


Ribbons

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:23:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and a pale green ribbon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ribbons

"Anna? Mr. Carson, have you seen Anna? I had hoped to catch her before she went home with Mr. Bates." Elsie bustles into his office and he looks up; he looks up and is taken aback. Her hair is down; well, partially, the long braid of it is over her shoulder and he's never seen her with her hair down. Not even in the middle of the night, now that he thinks about it; even when they are roused for some urgent task or another she takes the time to twist it into at least a loose bun, skewer it with a pin. Carson blinks.

It's so long, the pretty plaited length of it falls over her shoulder and down to her waist. He's not sure why, but he never thought it would be that long, that there'd be so much of it.

Elsie widens her eyes, waves her hand slowly in front of his face. "Mr. Carson? Have you seen her?" He blinks again, collects his thoughts, brings himself back to the here and now.

"You've missed her, I'm afraid; she and Mr. Bates called it a day about an hour ago." How does she carry it around all day? Isn't it heavy? He would think that much hair would actually hurt, would actually be painful pulling on the scalp. She isn't the first woman he's seen with her hair down, of course she's not; he's seen all of the young ladies with their braids uncoiled at some time or another — usually when they're raiding the kitchen late at night — and every now and then a maid will wander through the downstairs in her corset and petticoats looking for a towel after hair washing days. He nips that in the bud the moment he sees it, of course, gives them his sternest of lectures about proper dress and modesty, but this is different. They've known each other for so long and now —

"Blast." She huffs a sigh, bangs her hand lightly on the edge of his desk. Carson clears his throat, lifts his brows in question.

"What was it you wanted with Anna, anyway? I'm sure one of the other girls can see to it." She's already shaking her head, waving away the suggestion.

"No, no, it's not work. I wanted Anna to trim my hair, I'm overdue and the ends really need looked after. I guess it'll have to wait another week, then, until I can find time for it again." He fidgets, shifts around in his chair. Isn't sure that she should be discussing her private grooming rituals with him. He becomes aware that she is studying him thoughtfully, calculating something in that always-working brain of hers, and his fidgeting worsens. She's going to say something impertinent, of course, make a mockery of something he's said or done, though he can't imagine what it is now. Just rolls his pen in his fingers and waits for it.

"Are you busy at the moment?" He's surprised, it isn't what he expected, but he still doesn't like the path this is going down.

"Not — particularly, no, just recording some receipts — why, exactly?" Carson sits back in his chair, narrows his eyes.

"You could do it, if you would. It's not difficult, I can show you."

He blinks. Do what? She hasn't asked him anything. What does she want — a little tickle in the back of his mind connects the conversation and he sits up straight. She's asking him to see to her hair. Him. The butler. A man. A man who is the butler.

"Mrs. Hughes, I hardly think it appropriate for me to be involved in your — well, your —"

She's ignoring him, like she always does, and is shutting the door behind her, overriding his objections, raising her voice to speak over him. "For pity's sake, Mr. Carson, I'm asking you to trim a bit from the ends, not send me off as Lady Godiva. Calm down. I'm asking you because I know you'll be careful about it and not lop off a foot or two the way Mrs. Patmore would."

Elsie comes around his desk and her fingers are untying the light green ribbon that holds her braid secure, running her fingers through the strands, separating them roughly, combing through it and he's helplessly watching as the light plays on the color, as the brown shifts and gleams from chocolate to burgundy. As the fresh smell of all that silk wafts around them. He tries again to spare both of them some dignity.

"I have never touched a woman's hair in my life, Mrs. Hughes, how on earth am I supposed to know how to cut it?" She rolls her eyes, gives him a pitying smile.

"Then it's about time you did touch a woman's hair, isn't it? Think of it, Mr. Carson, the scandal, the intrigue." Elsie has a straight face but her tongue is firmly in her cheek as she smiles to lessen the sting of her words. "Here, then. Mind the scissors, they're very sharp." Hands him a sharp little pair of shears from her pocket and turns, shakes her head so it all falls straight, lifts it and drops it until it's all down in an even curtain over her back, grazing her hips, her bottom.

He stares at it and tries to swallow; his mouth is suddenly dry. "I — uh — well. How much should I — " She tosses an answer over her shoulder, breezy, confident in him.

"Oh, two or three inches will do, I'm sure."

Carson gingerly picks up a section of her hair and the feel of it between his fingers is so lovely, so luxurious, that a part of his mind rebels against taking the shears to it. It's sacrilege, surely, to cut hair this beautiful, to punish the delicate strands with the razor edge, but — he takes a silent, deep breath.

_Snip._

Lays the lock carefully on his desk, is careful not to let it scatter, to make a mess. It immediately begins to curl on itself and he smiles; she tries to tame the wave, he can see that now, but it won't be straight when it's down no matter how she irons or pulls at it.

_Snip._

Another section joins the first. She had been right about what she said, he is being careful, so careful, so slow to make sure it's all perfectly even and nicely done. The way he does everything. Slowly, with great concentration.

_Snip._

There's a wastepaper basket right next to his desk, he could just drop the cuttings there but he never even entertains the thought. It never crosses his mind to throw it in the garbage with crumpled paper and empty ink jars and polish tins. Such a thing would be blasphemous. Another section slides between his fingers, glimmers, and he cuts. Cuts another.

_Snip._

She would get less headaches, he thinks, if she would cut more off, but he doesn't know how that works, exactly. For her. Lady Sybil had bobbed her hair almost to the nape, but Sybil had been a lady of the house and more than that, she had been a rebel. Mrs. Hughes is neither of those things.

"Do you ever think of bobbing it off, the way Lady Sybil did?" He can hear the smile in her voice.

"I'm a bit old for new fashions, Mr. Carson, don't you think? Though I have to admit it did look awfully appealing, not to carry around pounds of it all day." She stands perfectly still, patiently, trustingly.

"I think you — " Carson stops himself. He doesn't even know what he meant to say. What does he think? That she should cut it? That she shouldn't? It's not his place to say anything at all about her hair; it's not his place to be touching it right now but here he is. She makes a small sound of prompt, waiting for him to complete his thought.

_Snip._

"I — think you — I think it's very nice. Very nice, indeed." He flushes, knows that he sounds like a raving idiot. Cuts the last section and lays it aside, and sits back to view his work critically. Trims a bit here and there. Clears his throat.

"There you are, Mrs. Hughes. All done." Watches as she twists the long length between her hands, pulls it forward over her shoulder to examine the ends and makes a satisfied sound.

"Oh, that's world's better, Mr. Carson, thank you very much." Elsie runs a finger over the ends and looks surprised. "And you cut so cleanly; perhaps I'll have you do it every time and let Anna off the hook." Gives him a cheeky grin and leaves him, tells him she'll return in a few moments after she's brushed it, put it back up.

Carson exhales a long sigh and picks up the wastebasket, cups his hand to push the pile of pretty curls into it. Can't bring himself to for some odd reason, can't throw it away. Perhaps he'll take it outside, cast it into the wind the way his mother always did when she cut their hair. Said that birds would use it for nests in the spring. Perhaps.

He rubs a strand between his fingers and notices that her ribbon has been left behind, the spring green satin bow that had been around her braid. Quickly, before she turns to him, he gathers up the hair into a neat bundle, smooths it out, ties the bow around it tightly so it won't slip free.

Puts it in his desk drawer. Perhaps he'll give it to the birds later, another time.

Not today.


End file.
